Ugh... Ouch... Ohhh... My Indian food baby just ate my kidneys. Now he’s chewing my spleen. Why didn’t I go to Lamaze class???
Ah... Nothing like coffee to facilitate the safe delivery of a healthy food baby, It's a boy!
Who’s up for a food baby shower?
Overheard: “Which way do I flush the toilet, up or down?” Depends if you want your food baby to go to heaven or hell.
There’s a party in my stomach, and everyone’s pistol-whipping my food baby.
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Five maybes
Maybe if gym teachers bit people and vampires taught dodgeball, that would shake things up.
Maybe more kids would stay in school if we called it Free Beer.
Maybe I do have a God complex. I’ll look into that after I blow up these planets.
Maybe people wouldn’t commit so many crimes in broad daylight if we called it “nice young lady daylight”.
Maybe it’s just me, but barfing makes me want to puke.
Maybe more kids would stay in school if we called it Free Beer.
Maybe I do have a God complex. I’ll look into that after I blow up these planets.
Maybe people wouldn’t commit so many crimes in broad daylight if we called it “nice young lady daylight”.
Maybe it’s just me, but barfing makes me want to puke.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Five confessions
I like to pretend my food is bad people, and my bowels are the bowels of hell, and my poo is reincarnation. It smells like justice.
I don't regret the children I fathered. I regret the fathers I childrened, because that sounds embarrassing.
We didn't need The Weather Channel when I was a kid. Keeping a meteorologist chained to the radiator worked just fine.
I learned a lot from comic books, like how to order sea monkeys or eat a planet.
If the glove fits, I peed in it.
I don't regret the children I fathered. I regret the fathers I childrened, because that sounds embarrassing.
We didn't need The Weather Channel when I was a kid. Keeping a meteorologist chained to the radiator worked just fine.
I learned a lot from comic books, like how to order sea monkeys or eat a planet.
If the glove fits, I peed in it.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Five thoughts about children
To understand your parents better, sell your own children to pirates.
Instilling values in children must begin early. That’s why all pregnant women should eat a Bible a day.
Children are like wet cement. They’re just not very smart.
The most important thing parents can teach their children is how to make hobos dance.
The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is they’re both in the pocket of the oil industry.
Instilling values in children must begin early. That’s why all pregnant women should eat a Bible a day.
Children are like wet cement. They’re just not very smart.
The most important thing parents can teach their children is how to make hobos dance.
The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is they’re both in the pocket of the oil industry.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
President Obama’s Circles on Google+
Family
Chicago Friends
DC Friends
Secret Muslim Friends
Batshit Republicans
Somewhat Sane Republicans
Somewhat Batshit Democrats
Democrats Who Make Me Want to Vomit When I See Them, Which is Far Too Often
World Leaders I’d Like to Take Out with a Drone
World Leaders I’d Like to Take Out for a Beer
Supervillains
Elvis, Tupac, Nixon, and Other "Dead" People
Journalists and Other Idiots
Awesome People I Met Because I’m the Freakin’ President
Clintons
Chicago Friends
DC Friends
Secret Muslim Friends
Batshit Republicans
Somewhat Sane Republicans
Somewhat Batshit Democrats
Democrats Who Make Me Want to Vomit When I See Them, Which is Far Too Often
World Leaders I’d Like to Take Out with a Drone
World Leaders I’d Like to Take Out for a Beer
Supervillains
Elvis, Tupac, Nixon, and Other "Dead" People
Journalists and Other Idiots
Awesome People I Met Because I’m the Freakin’ President
Clintons
Friday, July 08, 2011
Bitching About Starbucks Spelling = Ultimate Douchery
You wouldn’t think that entitled, douchey, white people could get any more entitled, douchey, or white, but you would think wrong. The unfortunately popular blog Starbucks Spelling is a hideous new low in the craptastic, ever-flowing, sewer of white shittiness.
Making fun of how other people talk and spell is usually arrogant and assholish, but it’s seldom as awful as these “hilarious” pictures of coffee cups where, for example, “Julie” is spelled “Joolee”. Ha ha, what a good one that is! These stupid baristas can’t spell! I am a genius for going to Starbucks and having a name.
This goes beyond first world problems or white person problems to new depths: Starbucks misspelling your name is an Ultimate Douche problem. Congratulations to my fellow caucasian assholes for helping us maintain our firm, pasty claim on being the worst people in the world.
Here’s my message to anyone who has ever posted a picture of their misspelled coffee cup on Facebook or anywhere else:
You should be grateful this poor barista didn’t stab you. The only purpose of writing your name down is to get the goddamn whatever-ccino into your shitty little hands. It isn’t a spelling test. It isn’t a monument to you and your wonderful name that—heaven forbid!—a mere commoner might besmirch. Get over yourself, then please go fuck yourself, then pretty please stick an entire Starbucks up your ass. Thank you.
There is a bright side to this stupid phenomenon. Some plucky grad student could write a fine dissertation on how the spelling ability and will to live of baristas have deteriorated due to relentless daily exposure to toxic levels of douchiness. You’re welcome, academia.
Making fun of how other people talk and spell is usually arrogant and assholish, but it’s seldom as awful as these “hilarious” pictures of coffee cups where, for example, “Julie” is spelled “Joolee”. Ha ha, what a good one that is! These stupid baristas can’t spell! I am a genius for going to Starbucks and having a name.
This goes beyond first world problems or white person problems to new depths: Starbucks misspelling your name is an Ultimate Douche problem. Congratulations to my fellow caucasian assholes for helping us maintain our firm, pasty claim on being the worst people in the world.
Here’s my message to anyone who has ever posted a picture of their misspelled coffee cup on Facebook or anywhere else:
You should be grateful this poor barista didn’t stab you. The only purpose of writing your name down is to get the goddamn whatever-ccino into your shitty little hands. It isn’t a spelling test. It isn’t a monument to you and your wonderful name that—heaven forbid!—a mere commoner might besmirch. Get over yourself, then please go fuck yourself, then pretty please stick an entire Starbucks up your ass. Thank you.
There is a bright side to this stupid phenomenon. Some plucky grad student could write a fine dissertation on how the spelling ability and will to live of baristas have deteriorated due to relentless daily exposure to toxic levels of douchiness. You’re welcome, academia.
Things to do to baby Hitler if you’re too squeamish to kill him but do have a time machine
Take away his binky.
Give him a second binky. See what happens. Try a third. Maybe he becomes so obsessed with binkies that mass murder isn’t even on his radar.
Shake him. I know you shouldn’t shake a baby, but we’re talking about Hitler here.
Steal him and drop him in the past. Maybe he’ll go after Neanderthals, who are dying off anyway.
Steal him and bring him to the future. Hope he tries to wipe out Martians, who have it coming.
Lie to him about his future. Tell him, “I am from the future, and you are going to blow up the moon!” Tell him it’s OK, who needs the moon anyway. This will keep him busy.
Show him the complete DVD collection of Lost. It might not change his life, but it will broaden his ideas about time travel. Instead of being the first Hitler, maybe he could be the second Smoke Monster.
Go back further in time and ask his great-grandparents, “Does worst-person-of-all-time-itis run in your family?” If they say yes, kill them.
Read him the story about the beautiful baby who didn’t grow up to slaughter millions or have a creepy mustache.
Show him Inglourious Basterds documentary repeatedly.
Buy him a puppy. Pour barbecue sauce on baby Hitler. See what happens.
Give him a second binky. See what happens. Try a third. Maybe he becomes so obsessed with binkies that mass murder isn’t even on his radar.
Shake him. I know you shouldn’t shake a baby, but we’re talking about Hitler here.
Steal him and drop him in the past. Maybe he’ll go after Neanderthals, who are dying off anyway.
Steal him and bring him to the future. Hope he tries to wipe out Martians, who have it coming.
Lie to him about his future. Tell him, “I am from the future, and you are going to blow up the moon!” Tell him it’s OK, who needs the moon anyway. This will keep him busy.
Show him the complete DVD collection of Lost. It might not change his life, but it will broaden his ideas about time travel. Instead of being the first Hitler, maybe he could be the second Smoke Monster.
Go back further in time and ask his great-grandparents, “Does worst-person-of-all-time-itis run in your family?” If they say yes, kill them.
Read him the story about the beautiful baby who didn’t grow up to slaughter millions or have a creepy mustache.
Show him Inglourious Basterds documentary repeatedly.
Buy him a puppy. Pour barbecue sauce on baby Hitler. See what happens.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Ten ins and outs
Out: pond scum
In: pond sleaze
Out: sugar daddies
In: Splenda fathers
Out: coffee table books
In: coffee table snuff films
Out: gospel choirs
In: gospel speed metal bands
Out: the cradle of civilization
In: the binky of civilization
Out: circle jerks
In: rhombus jerks
Out: phony baloney
In: sincere salami
Out: id, ego, superego
In: egg, chicken, chicken sandwich
Out: a hog on ice
In: a pig on quaaludes
Out: a beacon of hope
In: a bacon of hope
In: pond sleaze
Out: sugar daddies
In: Splenda fathers
Out: coffee table books
In: coffee table snuff films
Out: gospel choirs
In: gospel speed metal bands
Out: the cradle of civilization
In: the binky of civilization
Out: circle jerks
In: rhombus jerks
Out: phony baloney
In: sincere salami
Out: id, ego, superego
In: egg, chicken, chicken sandwich
Out: a hog on ice
In: a pig on quaaludes
Out: a beacon of hope
In: a bacon of hope
Friday, July 01, 2011
Five hates
I hate when I get all the way into the bathtub and *then* realize I forgot my Gilligan hat.
I hate when the butler forgets to water the shrunken heads.
I hate when the fabric of reality rips right in the crotch.
I hate wondering if I’m smart enough, strong enough, or slathered in chocolate sauce enough.
I hate when I mix up my recipes and prophecies. This seven-headed beast pudding just doesn’t taste right.
I hate when the butler forgets to water the shrunken heads.
I hate when the fabric of reality rips right in the crotch.
I hate wondering if I’m smart enough, strong enough, or slathered in chocolate sauce enough.
I hate when I mix up my recipes and prophecies. This seven-headed beast pudding just doesn’t taste right.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Five thoughts about love
Love is a monkey. True love is a monkey in a top hat. Immortal love is a monkey in a top hat peeing on a chicken.
It’s better to marry someone you hate than to drop someone you love in a volcano and then giggle about it.
You never forget your first love or second war crime.
Deep down, all anyone really wants is to be loved, abducted by aliens, and displayed in a Martian petting zoo.
What is love? Is love buying a castle, renovating the dungeon, and hiring goons to capture the people you love? I guess it is.
It’s better to marry someone you hate than to drop someone you love in a volcano and then giggle about it.
You never forget your first love or second war crime.
Deep down, all anyone really wants is to be loved, abducted by aliens, and displayed in a Martian petting zoo.
What is love? Is love buying a castle, renovating the dungeon, and hiring goons to capture the people you love? I guess it is.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Replacing dogs with gimps in the bookstore
50 Games to Play With Your Gimp
How to Housebreak Your Gimp in 7 Days
The Other End of the Leash: Why We Do What We Do Around Gimps
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Gimp Tricks
Charlie the Ranch Gimp
Why My Third Husband Will Be a Gimp
Oogy: The Gimp Only a Family Could Love
Through a Gimp’s Eyes
Walter the Farting Gimp: Banned from the Beach
Gimps and the Women Who Love Them
Bad Gimp: A Love Story
Everything Gimp: What Kids Really Want to Know About Gimps
The Multiple-gimp Family
97 Ways to Make a Gimp Smile
How to Housebreak Your Gimp in 7 Days
The Other End of the Leash: Why We Do What We Do Around Gimps
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Gimp Tricks
Charlie the Ranch Gimp
Why My Third Husband Will Be a Gimp
Oogy: The Gimp Only a Family Could Love
Through a Gimp’s Eyes
Walter the Farting Gimp: Banned from the Beach
Gimps and the Women Who Love Them
Bad Gimp: A Love Story
Everything Gimp: What Kids Really Want to Know About Gimps
The Multiple-gimp Family
97 Ways to Make a Gimp Smile
Friday, June 24, 2011
Five thoughts about robots
It's 3:19. Do you know where your robot army is?
Science is not about replacing religion with cold facts; it’s about replacing your spouse with a hot sexbot.
Everything’s bigger in Texas, even the government nanobots playing Yahtzee in your brain.
Happy Bring Your Fembot to Work Day!
Strunk and White’s terrifying rule of robotics: “Omit needless humans.”
Science is not about replacing religion with cold facts; it’s about replacing your spouse with a hot sexbot.
Everything’s bigger in Texas, even the government nanobots playing Yahtzee in your brain.
Happy Bring Your Fembot to Work Day!
Strunk and White’s terrifying rule of robotics: “Omit needless humans.”
Monday, June 20, 2011
Five thoughts about orphans
A study shows that cows with names produce more milk. I’m gonna try the same approach at my orphan labor ranch.
If you’re struggling with your New Year’s diet, try putting ranch dressing on the orphans. It helps.
I'm willing to pay more for American-made orphans.
Tossing helpless puppies and orphans into the ravenous maw of Oprah isn’t a duty—it’s a privilege.
You don’t need religion to be a kind, decent person who barbecues orphans for a living.
If you’re struggling with your New Year’s diet, try putting ranch dressing on the orphans. It helps.
I'm willing to pay more for American-made orphans.
Tossing helpless puppies and orphans into the ravenous maw of Oprah isn’t a duty—it’s a privilege.
You don’t need religion to be a kind, decent person who barbecues orphans for a living.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Five thoughts about Batman
Should I go with my chastity belt, championship belt, or Batman-approved utility belt? Big job interview today.
Overheard: “Technically, milkshakes have taken over the role of...” Batman? I think he was going to say Batman.
For Iron Man, I bet a top pet peeve is when Batman comes over and pees on your couch.
When I die, I hope they say, “We’re not here to mourn. We’re here to audition a new Batman.”
If we can put a man on the moon, we can put Batman on the moon. Let’s hurry. Most moon people are criminal scum.
Overheard: “Technically, milkshakes have taken over the role of...” Batman? I think he was going to say Batman.
For Iron Man, I bet a top pet peeve is when Batman comes over and pees on your couch.
When I die, I hope they say, “We’re not here to mourn. We’re here to audition a new Batman.”
If we can put a man on the moon, we can put Batman on the moon. Let’s hurry. Most moon people are criminal scum.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Five thoughts about the abyss
When you look into the abyss, the abyss poodle licks your eyeballs.
When you look into the abyss through a window at night, the abyss files charges. The abyss doesn’t like that sort of thing.
If you French kiss the abyss, the abyss German kisses you.
When you play footsie with the abyss, the abyss plays soulsie with you.
When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss covers its boobs. The abyss is surprisingly modest.
When you look into the abyss through a window at night, the abyss files charges. The abyss doesn’t like that sort of thing.
If you French kiss the abyss, the abyss German kisses you.
When you play footsie with the abyss, the abyss plays soulsie with you.
When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss covers its boobs. The abyss is surprisingly modest.
Monday, June 13, 2011
A Bird-to-English Dictionary
aaayayaum
I can poop anywhere, and that is awesome.
bup-bup bup-bup-bup
Your haircut stinks!
chwee chwee chwee chwee chwee
You call it preening, but a man’s gotta look his best.
dzeer dzeer dzeer tzee tzee
Someday, I am gonna kill a squirrel or malti-poo.
eeeen eeeen eeeen
I descended from dinosaurs, you know.
hup-hup-a-hwooo
If I poop on this guy’s head, you owe me a Coke.
kip-ip-ip-ip-ip
A cat on a leash! A cat on a leash! There is a God after all.
kreeaaaaaaaaaaar
Do we have to practice this formation again? Jesus.
kyew kyew kyew kyew kyew
My third egg is gonna grow up to be a doctor.
ooaah coo coo coo
I know who killed Kennedy.
prrip prrip
I would make a great mate. If you don’t believe me, ask your mom.
si-si-seeeee-soo-see
This is an instinct! This is an instinct!
toop-toop-toop-toop-toop
No, you jackass, birdsong is learned!
tu-tu-tu tu-tu-tu-tu
If you mess with my eggs, I will cut you.
tzeen tzeen tzeen
Why do I even come back to this craphole every spring?
weedle-eedle
I love the smell of reproductive success in the morning.
weet-weet-weet-weet-zee-zee
Mate for life? No thanks. I get more ass than a branch.
whi-whi-whi-whi-whi
Woof woof woof!
widdik pik widdik pik pik pik
You’ve got to stop this war in Afghanistan.
zeet-zeet-zeet
An angel getting its wings is bullshit. If anyone needs a new pair, it’s millions of chickens.
I can poop anywhere, and that is awesome.
bup-bup bup-bup-bup
Your haircut stinks!
chwee chwee chwee chwee chwee
You call it preening, but a man’s gotta look his best.
dzeer dzeer dzeer tzee tzee
Someday, I am gonna kill a squirrel or malti-poo.
eeeen eeeen eeeen
I descended from dinosaurs, you know.
hup-hup-a-hwooo
If I poop on this guy’s head, you owe me a Coke.
kip-ip-ip-ip-ip
A cat on a leash! A cat on a leash! There is a God after all.
kreeaaaaaaaaaaar
Do we have to practice this formation again? Jesus.
kyew kyew kyew kyew kyew
My third egg is gonna grow up to be a doctor.
ooaah coo coo coo
I know who killed Kennedy.
prrip prrip
I would make a great mate. If you don’t believe me, ask your mom.
si-si-seeeee-soo-see
This is an instinct! This is an instinct!
toop-toop-toop-toop-toop
No, you jackass, birdsong is learned!
tu-tu-tu tu-tu-tu-tu
If you mess with my eggs, I will cut you.
tzeen tzeen tzeen
Why do I even come back to this craphole every spring?
weedle-eedle
I love the smell of reproductive success in the morning.
weet-weet-weet-weet-zee-zee
Mate for life? No thanks. I get more ass than a branch.
whi-whi-whi-whi-whi
Woof woof woof!
widdik pik widdik pik pik pik
You’ve got to stop this war in Afghanistan.
zeet-zeet-zeet
An angel getting its wings is bullshit. If anyone needs a new pair, it’s millions of chickens.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Five don’ts
Don’t stop moving towards your goals just because of fear or elephant tranquilizers.
Don’t jump from the frying pan into the bedpan.
Don’t lock the barn door after the Cylons nuked your horse.
Don’t judge a book by its obscene, glow-in-the-dark, pop-up tentacles.
Don’t let a day pass without making at least one person feel like a disposable toilet seat cover.
Don’t jump from the frying pan into the bedpan.
Don’t lock the barn door after the Cylons nuked your horse.
Don’t judge a book by its obscene, glow-in-the-dark, pop-up tentacles.
Don’t let a day pass without making at least one person feel like a disposable toilet seat cover.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Five thoughts about Christina Hendricks
At this point in my life, I think I’ve earned courtesy, respect, and nude photos of Christina Hendricks.
Someone should cast Christina Hendricks as a serial killer whose weapon of choice is the chest bump. You’re welcome, Spielberg.
I want Christina Hendricks to have my baby. I just need her address and a baby-sized envelope.
Big government needs rebranding. What if we called it “Gorgeous, voluptuous Christina Hendricks-style government”?
When I die, I hope they say, “We’re not here to mourn. We’re here to console Christina Hendricks, his secret girlfriend.”
Someone should cast Christina Hendricks as a serial killer whose weapon of choice is the chest bump. You’re welcome, Spielberg.
I want Christina Hendricks to have my baby. I just need her address and a baby-sized envelope.
Big government needs rebranding. What if we called it “Gorgeous, voluptuous Christina Hendricks-style government”?
When I die, I hope they say, “We’re not here to mourn. We’re here to console Christina Hendricks, his secret girlfriend.”
Monday, June 06, 2011
Replacing fish with fists in the bookstore
McClaine’s Secrets of Successful Fisting
Fisting Hawaii Style, Vol. 2
Fisting With an Old Friend: A Memoir
Piggy and Dad Go Fisting
Loon Lake Fisting Derby
A Fisting Guide for Kids
Trout Fisting in America
Just Fisting With Grandma
Fisting for Chickens: Short Stories About Rural Youth
Ernest Hemingway Fisted Here
Fisting Hawaii Style, Vol. 2
Fisting With an Old Friend: A Memoir
Piggy and Dad Go Fisting
Loon Lake Fisting Derby
A Fisting Guide for Kids
Trout Fisting in America
Just Fisting With Grandma
Fisting for Chickens: Short Stories About Rural Youth
Ernest Hemingway Fisted Here
Friday, June 03, 2011
Five maybes
Maybe if other sacraments besides marriage could be consummated, religion would be more popular.
Maybe more kids would stay in school if we called it “Free Beer”.
Maybe if we got Charmin to make our guns, baseball bats, and ninja throwing stars, the world would be a better place.
Maybe work would be more fun if you brought your favorite scepter.
Maybe I do have a God complex. I’ll look into that after I blow up these planets.
Maybe more kids would stay in school if we called it “Free Beer”.
Maybe if we got Charmin to make our guns, baseball bats, and ninja throwing stars, the world would be a better place.
Maybe work would be more fun if you brought your favorite scepter.
Maybe I do have a God complex. I’ll look into that after I blow up these planets.
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